Gone At Dusk Through Narrow Streets
by Mind of the Childishly Naive
Summary: Sam Winchester; October 1988-1999


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Gone At Dusk Through Narrow Streets

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| October 31, 1988

The sole of Sam's shoe skids on the edge of the sidewalk as he's stepping up, and he goes down hard, fast, the air pushing out of his lungs. He winds up flat on his chest on the hard concrete, his hands and knees stinging, scraped and bloody from where he tried to break his fall. Bright spots swim in his eyes. He can't get his breath, he can't move. And then Dean's hands are under Sam's arms, lifting him back up, setting him on his feet.

The world lurches unpleasantly, but Dean is like a rock.

He's steady and sure.

Dean smacks off his knees, rubs the dirt and dampness out of Sam's palms, and it doesn't even hurt. Not really. Dean carries Sam's bag of candy for him, and when they're on their way back down the block, crossing the parking lot of the motel, Dean flashes Sam a smile and says he's proud of him for not crying like a little bitch.

Sam's face puckers into a frown when he tells Dean he's not sharing any of his candy.

But Dean doesn't care about that, just laughs and ducks his head, so Sam calls him a jerk, instead.

The next morning Dad comes home after being gone for a long time. He smells like salt and metal, like dirt and dust and something else Sam can't place. And when he kneels in front of Sam and he asks, half laughing, how he scraped his hands up so bad, Sam doesn't know he's supposed to lie.

He's still excited, still proud that he didn't cry.

He shows Dad his palms, still red and raw from the night before.

"Me and Dean went Trick-or-Treating," he says, bubbling with the same enthusiasm he had when Dean told him they were going. It doesn't matter that his father stills and raises his chin, his rough hands squeezing Sam's a little too tightly.

Sam is looking at his palms, picking at the scabs, and he doesn't notice.

He doesn't see the way Dad looks at Dean, or the way Dean doesn't look at anything in particular, his gaze moving about the room; doesn't see his brother, who is so much bigger and stronger than him, who is so steady and sure, shrink back a few steps, rub the back of his neck as he ducks his head and bites his lip.

"You like Twizzlers, Dad?" Sam asks, small fingers skimming over large, bruised knuckles when his attention shifts from his hands to Dad's, wrapped around his wrists, "Dean made sure we got a _bunch_ for you. He said they were your favorite."

Dad only says, "Yeah, son."

His voice is tight, and Sam hears it, glancing up.

Dad is standing, though, letting go of his hands, and Dean moves quickly out of his way, starts to get their stuff together before he's even asked to do it. Sam stands in the middle of the room, confused and rubbing his palms. Dad tidies up the motel; packs the car and carries Sam out, buckles him into the back seat with his toys and candy. The car door is still open, letting the air move around in the cool space so it doesn't get stuffy, and Sam is digging the good stuff out of his bag of candy.

He picks all the Snickers out for Dean, piles them in his lap.

He hears the leaves clattering around in the parking lot, those sounds more sharp and clear than the sound of Dad's voice, barely muffled by distance, by the closed door of the motel room, raising in anger.

| October 18, 1989

Dean holds his hand, fingers warm despite the cold as they stand together on the walkway outside of their new school. There are still a lot of kids going in, waving to their parents as they slam car doors. Dad dropped them off five minutes ago and told them to behave before the chug and grumble from the engine drowned him out. Sam puts the fingers of his free hand in his mouth, nervously pushing at his bottom lip, and Dean tells him to stop when he notices, that it's gross.

Sam drops his hand, curls his fingers into the bottom of his jacket.

"I don't wanna," he says, and Dean squeezes his hand.

"Look, if you don't like it," he says, looking down, "If you get scared or somethin', I'll show you where my classroom is first. So you just come and get me, alright? If your new teacher's an asshole, or someone says somethin' stupid to you. You come get me and I'll take care of you."

Sam nods his head, tipping forward to watch his feet as he scuffs his toes back and forth on the pavement. These shoes are too big for him, and he's tripped over them twice this morning already. He isn't looking forward to wearing them the rest of the year. They're stained so they look dirty, permanently, and they're coming apart in a few places. They were Dean's just a few weeks ago, and Dean's shoes are newer, but still second-hand.

He's already promised to go easy on them so they won't be worn out by the time Sam gets them.

"It stops being so weird after a while."

But Dean says it like he says _you're not __**supposed**__ to like Darth Vader, he's the bad guy,_ and Sam doesn't believe him.

| October 26, 1990

Sam is pressed firmly against Dean's side, his chin resting on his brother's shoulder as he watches Dean's thumbs mash the buttons on his Gameboy. The noisy blips as Dean stacks blocks are just a faint undertone to the blare of 80s rock filling the car, the steady growl of the engine. When Dad cranks the heat up, Sam hears a plastic rattling start in the vents and he snickers, turning his face into Dean's shoulder, drawing up his knees.

Dean is laughing, too, when he tells him to shut up under his breath.

Dad doesn't ask what's funny.

He bangs his fist on the dashboard, though, muttering, "The hell is that." Sam catches his eyes in the rearview mirror and presses his hands over his mouth, hiding his dimples so Dad won't know he's smiling.

The sun's going down, orange beams of light glinting in through the windows.

_Hey Jude_ comes on the radio, much later, after it's been dark for a while. Sam recognizes the tune and smiles, his eyes still closed, moving his legs where they're tangled with Dean's. They're lying on opposite sides of the back seat so they both have plenty of room, head's pillowed against the armrests of the door, sharing a blanket.

Dad cuts the radio off before the first verse even gets started.

Dean hums the song softly the rest of the night, his foot wobbling under the blanket.

| October 6, 1991

Bobby's house is five degrees hotter than it really needs to be, all the time.

When it's cold outside, snow flurries in the air, sticking on the dead grass, the smoldering air is appreciated; when him and Dean run in with their hands in their armpits, their toes numb, to thaw out after playing among the cars and rusted engines. Now, Sam feels like it could smother him under the thick jacket he's wearing, as he hefts his bag up onto his shoulder and picks a few books up from off the couch, where he set them. Dad is thumping down the stairs, his boots heavy and hard, the wood creaking in protest.

"C'mon, boys," he calls, voice booming through the house.

It sounds too empty, flat and sad, like it knows that they're leaving and that Sam doesn't want to.

He hears Dad and Bobby talking on the porch, exchanging goodbyes. Dean barrels down the steps right on his father's heels, a bag over his shoulder, another in his hand. He pokes his head into the sitting room, where Sam is stalling, makes a beckoning gesture with the duffel bag and tilts his head.

"C'mon, Sammy."

He disappears out the door. Bobby says, "Hey, watch it, ya idjit," and Dean tosses a _See ya, Bobby_ over his shoulder as easily as he tosses the bags into the back seat.

The front door is propped open, letting all the cold air in and the warm air out, the two mixing unpleasantly. Sam drags his feet down the short hall, and Bobby turns to look at him as he comes up on the threshold. His arms are crossed, ears red from the cold. He drops a hand to ruffle Sam's hair and Sam laughs, "Bye, Uncle Bobby," reaching up to brush his hair off his forehead with the back of his wrist. The snow makes the wood slick, so Sam watches his feet as he goes down them, not wanting to bust his ass or listen to Dean laugh about it.

He isn't sure which would be worse.

The gravel's crunching under his shoes when Bobby calls him back,

"Oh – Sam."

Sam glances over his shoulder and finds Bobby's hand held out, fist closed. He looks back toward the car; Dad is packing the trunk and Dean is sliding into the front seat, behind the wheel, glancing into the rearview mirror. The amulet Bobby drops into Sam's open palm is warmer, heavier, than he expects it to be.

"For your Daddy, right?"

Bobby points, a sly smile on his face, and Sam grins. He buries the thing in his coat pocket before anyone else can see it, hears the trunk slamming closed.

"Let's go, Sam!"

"Thanks, Uncle Bobby," Sam says, hurriedly, under his breath, and Bobby winks at him.

"Take care, Sam."

Bobby's still standing out on the porch when Dad makes Dean slide over (_"You can drive once I get us on a back road, son. Not the main road."_), when the engine roars to life and they're moving down the long gravel road. When Sam sits up on his knees and turns around in the seat, staring out the back window. He pulls the amulet out of his pocket, twists the thick black cord between his fingers as the snow fall starts in earnest, and Bobby disappears among the junked cars and weeds, the pale white flurries.

| October 11, 1992

The empty can pops loudly as the BB tears through it. This gun doesn't kick like the shotgun does; it isn't as heavy, doesn't make his shoulder sting or his palms tingle. There's no acrid smell of gun powder hanging in the air. Dean lets out a _whoop_ that echoes back at them from across the open field as Sam lowers the gun, his hand falling heavily on the back of Sam's shoulder, shaking him playfully.

"Good _shot_, Sammy!"

Sam doesn't think it's too conceited of him to admit that it is.

Dean wedged that beer can into a narrow split in the middle of a tree, almost a yard back from the line at the opposite end of the field. It's his best shot yet. The ground squelches as Sam shifts his feet, picking them up from where they've settled in the muck. His sneakers are ruined, his knees knocking together with cold, but Dean is grinning when he points out another one, through the trees.

A small dot of bright blue among the grey and brown.

| October 19, 1993

Sam stays up later than he should. He knows he has school in the morning, can feel the thickness settling around his eyes, but the motel room is too quiet without Dean in it; Sam's already tried sleeping with the television on, or the radio going, some dumb station that comes in clearer than it ever would in the impala. But it's pointless. His worry is stupid, but it's still not-stupid enough to keep him up, waiting.

He knows Dean is fine.

Dean is with Dad – so he's fine.

Sam settles for sitting cross-legged on the couch, the _Odyssey_ open in his lap, toying with the too-long sleeves of the grey Henley he's wearing that smells like Dean and motor oil no matter how many time he's washed or worn it. He wonders if he even has a smell of his own, or if it's just some strange combination of Dean and Dad, of grungy motel rooms, greasy foods, and cheap detergent, beer and leather seats. He wonders if his smell has just grown stale and unnoticed from sitting too long in an unwashed duffel bag, among clothes that are never properly clean for very long.

The wind is blowing hard outside, rattling the window. Sam still hears the deep rumble of the impala's engine as it comes up the street almost an hour later, sees the headlights flash through the pulled curtains, and he flips the book closed on his thumb, lurching up off the couch. He hurries to slide the chain off the door, turn the dead bolt.

When he pulls open the door, a rush of unexpectedly warm air hits his body. Leafs sneak in across the carpet.

That's a rule broken right there – _don't open the door unless you know for sure that it's me or Dean_ – but Sam isn't worried about it because he knows it's them. He stands in the door, barefooted, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with both hands. But the second Dad kills the engine and an abrupt silence falls, Sam knows something's not right. The light from the room is glinting on the front windshield, and while Sam can make out Dad's silhouette, quick, urgent movements underneath the glare as he opens the car door, he doesn't see Dean's in the passenger's seat. There's no movement at all.

"Dad," Sam says, the second John is out of the car.

"Get inside."

The door slams closed, the impala rocking gently, and Dad runs around the front of the car, yanking open the passenger's side door. Sam is rooted to the spot, cold with sweat. His voice sticks in his throat.

"What's wrong?"

The words don't go far because the wind carries them away, tugging at his hair and clothes, and he isn't even sure if Dad hears them. He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he hears Dean's voice, snatched away as well, muffled and funny; Dad's voice is low, calm but too sharp. He all but drags Dean out of the car and when Dad lets go of him, for just a second, to shove the door closed, Dean immediately starts to sink.

His legs don't even try to hold him up, like they're made out of jello.

Sam hears a faint giggle that makes him more nervous than anything else has, as Dad hauls Dean back upright. He doesn't register that Dad is talking to him, loud and annoyed, until Dad is practically shoving him aside to get Dean through the door, repeating the order, "Come over here, now! Put pressure on this!" He sits Dean on the couch and Sam climbs over the arm of it to get to his brother, fingers pulling at Dean's plaid shirt, his T-shirt, his ratty jeans. Under the off-yellow light, dim because it's just one lamp, the blood on Dean's clothes looks almost orange. But Sam doesn't see a wound. Not until Dean lifts his right arm and his hand falls on the side of Sam's neck, hot and tacky with blood, smacking wetly against his skin.

The smell is sharp in the air, pennies and something rancid that reminds Sam of stagnant water.

He grabs Dean's wrist, pushing up the sleeve.

The fabric gives easily because it's torn in three wide places, Dean's arm matching underneath it. Sam doesn't know what else to do, so he lifts the tail of his shirt, wraps the excess that bags around his hips over Dean's forearm, where the gouges are deepest and still bleeding freely. He closes his hands over the wound as the blood beads through the coarse grey fabric, and Sam can't stomach looking at that, so he doesn't.

Dean's got this completely dopey expression on his face as he looks at Sam, his eyes half-open, pupils wide and dark, dumb smile spread over his face.

"Hey, Sammy," he says, so thickly it slurs.

Sam stares disbelievingly into his brother's face, his mouth falling open.

It's a solid minute before he manages to speak, and his voice raises incredulously, "Are you _high?_" Dean laughs, right in his face, his breath so warm that Sam starts in surprise and lurches back a bit. Dean's head tips forward, his eyes unfocused, drooping closed; he tries to move his arm away without thinking about it, and Sam pulls it against his chest, curling over it, knees digging into Dean's thigh.

"_Dean."_

"It's the poison," Dad says, and Sam twists to look at him over the back of the couch, raising up on his knees a little, "He's alright. He did good."

There are bottles spread out on the table, herbs and liquids that Sam doesn't recognize, dark when they mix together in a small, clear jar. Dad screws the lid on tight and starts shaking it, muttering words Sam doesn't understand. He understands _poison_, and looks at Dean again, heart beating out a nervous rhythm in his chest. Sam sinks back down beside him, hugs Dean's arm, hanging loosely in his grip.

Dean hums disjointedly in the back of his throat, like he does when Sam can't get to sleep at night, after he climbs into bed with Dean.

It isn't comforting at all this time.

| October 3, 1994

Dad takes them 'camping', right when the leaves are starting to change, before they start falling off in earnest. The drive up into the mountains is a sight that Sam has seen countless times, different places that are all the same in a lot of tedious ways. The highway black and stretching on forever, nothing but trees or hills or fields, the occasional house, as far as the eye can see. Yeah it's pretty, but it gets old after a while.

Sam turns his attention inward, digs his feet into the back of the front seat, where he knows the small of Dean's back is. His efforts earn him a silent glare, Dean's eyes a color he won't see again for months outside the car.

It's acknowledgment. That's all Sam really wanted.

"Play _I Spy_."

"No, Sam, that's lame."

Dean turns back around, like he's too cool to play car games. Sam pushes with his feet again, but Dean ignores him, even when he kicks pretty hard, the upholstery groaning and giving. Sam toes his shoes off and slumps back, sticking his feet up over Dean's shoulder and nudging Dean in the cheek, stretching to reach his nose, rubbing his hairline. Dean mutters, _"Quit it!"_ and knocks Sam's foot down off the back of the seat.

Sam retaliates by cuffing him in the ear with the heel of his other foot. He quickly pulls his legs up to his chest, rolling over, when Dean swears and twists around, tries to grab his ankle and yank him out of the seat.

"Come _on_, Dean, I'm bored!"

"You won't be bored when I kick your ass!"

Dean is already halfway over the front seat, still awkward with his too-long legs, trying not to kick Dad in the face and reaching for Sam at the same time. Sam yells and scrambles out of Dean's way, but there's nowhere to go in the back seat other than the opposite side of the car, and Dean can reach him easily now. Dean's muffled swear when he falls shoulder-first into the floorboard is drowned out by the radio as John cranks it up, calling a short, "Be easy, boys," over his shoulder.

_Bohemian Rhapsody _blares from the speakers.

The trees pass in a blur of colors.

| October 21, 1995

Sam watches the multi-colored leaves skittering in as the door of the record store opens under Dean's hand. They gust away, find hiding places under tables, when the door pushes closed behind him, and Sam digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. It's warm inside the store and Dean shrugs off his jacket as he moves, grinning, down an aisle, knowing he's going to be in here long enough to start sweating under the extra layers.

As disinterested as his brother is joyous, Sam moves aimlessly around the store. He thumbs through the posters without any real interest, picks up a couple of CDs. _Black Night_, by Deep Purple crackles in over the speakers. Sam looks around and sees Dean two rows over, his head bobbing along as he tips another vinyl forward against his chest. When Sam wanders toward the back of the store, he sees a set of wide, flat steps going up into another room, and only glances once at Dean before going up, himself.

There's an admittedly ridiculous pulse of pleasure in his chest when he has to duck underneath the set of wind chimes hanging in the low doorway; more so when Sam finds himself, quite suddenly, in a book store. There's a hand-painted sign on the wall to his far left, almost hidden among stacks of books and pinned-up flyers.

_Take a Book if You Need It._

And Sam thinks that's a pretty good attitude to have toward books.

The shelves go all the way up to the ceiling, but they're placed awkwardly. Sam has to squeeze around a few tight corners, nearly knocks over a stack of encyclopedias sitting in the floor. He pulls a couple of books off the shelves, replaces them with a half-guilty conscious, because there's eight bucks in his pocket, but he isn't willing to part with it over books he convinces himself that he doesn't really need. All the books are second-hand, which is something he's used to.

None of them are marked with a price tag.

Sam carries around a battered copy of _The Silmarillion_ for a while, clapping it against the flat of his palm as he steps back and tilts his head up to see the topmost shelves.

| October 17, 1996

"Why the hell would I wanna go to a haunted house, Dean?"

"C'mon, Sammy, it'll be fun!"

Sam knows for certain that he and Dean have completely different views on what _fun_ is, but he doesn't argue any further. They don't have anything better to do, with Dad away on a hunt and school still on. Dean flirts with the girl selling the bracelets at the door. He smiles and compliments, flatters with that soft, deep laugh of his, reaches out to move a strand of amber hair behind her ear and slides two bracelets off the table when she blushes and ducks her head, her hand following the same path as Dean's had.

She fumbles, then; giggles and hits him with this killer smile that's all red lips and dimples, as Dean's hands move surreptitiously into his pockets.

"You gonna buy a bracelet, or what?" she asks, propping her elbows up on the table.

Dean shrugs his shoulders, winning smile.

"Bought one earlier," he says, then gestures at Sam, whose face turns red as the girl cranes around his brother's hip to look at him. He scratches behind his ear and looks away. "Had to go pick up my nerdy brother. He loves these things."

Dean raps his knuckles on the table as he steps away. The girl looks disappointed, but she remains playful, interested, tilting her head to one side.

"Well, at least you didn't come over here just because you _wanted_ something," she simpers, as if that's a point in Dean's favor. She raises her shoulder as if she couldn't care less, either way, but Sam knows she does.

"Oh, I wanted somethin'," Dean fires back, even as he walks away and Sam falls into step beside him, rolling his eyes, rubbing his neck.

The girl's mouth drops open in scandalized delight when the implication hits her, but Sam doesn't look back to see it; the way her lips curl into a smile, or the way Dean raises his eyebrows and smirks before turning around fully, laughing under his breath.

Sam doesn't know how Dean does it, holds his hand out to take the bracelet when it's offered and taping it around his wrist.

It's thin, papery, but it doesn't tear when he tugs on it.

"You're terrible," he says, looking sideways at Dean.

"You need to get laid." Dean says it without thinking, and Sam makes a face at him. Dean makes one, as well - a deep grimace as he shakes his head, suddenly realizing. Sam thinks Dean forgets the age difference between them, that is at times both gaping wide and hardly worth mentioning. "In like – a year or two. Shut up."

Sam buries his face in the palm of his hand, ears reddening.

"God, this is worse than the haunted house."

Of course, he stands corrected, twenty minutes later, when he's a shaking, heaving mess outside the exit and Dean is laughing, rubbing his back.

"Man, I didn't know there were clowns," Dean swears, and Sam wishes he had puked on his brother, instead of the nearest tree, "Jesus Christ. _It's alright,_ Sam. They're gone, they're just a bunch a guys in suits. Nothin' scary."

Sam doesn't trust himself to straighten up just yet, so he stays doubled over, one hand propped on his knees, the other pressed against his stomach. He gulps down air, trying to calm his nerves. Underneath the trembling and the gross clenching in his gut is mortification and embarrassment, making a new home in his chest.

Dean is never going to let him live this down.

"I fucking hate you," Sam gasps, unable to get his voice to raise with any kind of conviction while he can still taste bile.

Dean's hand falls heavily between his shoulder blades, skims down his back.

He's laughing.

"I know, I know."

| October 30, 1997

Sam hears the plastic crinkling and he can't believe his ears. It's the only sound in the house, other than the slight creak of boards under his feet as he moves down the hall to the stairs. The only light is the moon, just a day past being full, coming in brightly through the curtained windows in the livingroom. Sam half-turns to look at Dean, gun pointed at the floor. The extra silver bullets are heavy in his coat pocket, weighing it down against his thigh.

Dean stops just short of him, eyebrows raised.

"_Are you eating candy?"_ Sam hisses at him.

Dean leans back a bit, eyebrows climbing, and Sam can just _barely_ make out the slight bulge in his cheeks when Dean closes his jaw, works the chocolate between his teeth. His lips are pressed together and the brief hesitation is answer enough. Sam drops his shoulders, rolls his eyes toward the ceiling as Dean straightens defensively. His mouth is full when he mutters, "Hey, he's got a big ass bowl sitting out on the table, alright! I only took enough to fill my pockets – "

"Dean, we're doing a job!"

"I know! We're about to gank the son of a bitch," Dean whispers incredulously, gesturing toward the stairs with his open hand, "He's not gonna miss it!"

"We've been working this case for _months_ and you're screwing around –"

"Jesus Christ, don't be like Dad, Sam, it's just _candy_ – "

There's a clatter upstairs, a loud thump that echoes down and makes them both pause and catch their breath, before Sam even has time to be righteously offended. Nothing follows it. No movement, no scrambling retreat; no body falling down the stairs, no claws tearing at them. Sam glances back at Dean, swallowing hard; Dean makes a silent gesture toward the stairs, his face serious now, any annoyance gone completely.

He's still chewing that damn chocolate.

Sam lets out a breath and climbs the stairs.

He doesn't know whether to be grateful or worried that Dad's only waiting in the car to back them up if they need it.

| October 23, 1998

It should be too cold for the haze of rain currently washing over the mid-South, Kentucky included. It's not even honest _rain,_ it's just a gentle hush of frigid mist. The skies are overcast and dark, more so than usual. The afternoons are sepia toned as the sun starts its earlier descent.

There's still a week before Halloween, but it's Friday, just after 4, and as Sam's walking back to the motel from the library, he sees kids just a few years younger than himself running around the streets in small, loose groups, costumes donned already, swinging plastic jack-o-lanterns that rattle with treats. He'd noticed signs hanging up around town; _OctoberFest_ is this weekend, though it's almost an entire month late.

Sam decides not to even bother nit-picking the inaccuracies of this particular tradition.

He still finds himself wishing, absently annoyed, for an outbreak of cholera when a handful of tiny girls squeal in terror as they reach the end of Main Street, and the man dressed as a Scarecrow sitting in the lawn chair at the corner rises up and shouts at them. The girls tumble backwards, wailing and giggling, clutching at each other.

Their parents are right behind them, short heels clacking on the pavement, sneakers crunching dead, damp leaves. They laugh and wave, exchange greetings with the Scarecrow while the man is doubled over, wheezing with laughter.

The block around the court house is crowded with people in costume, screaming kids and laughing teenagers, craft booths and food vendors lining the streets. Sam pulls the zipper of his jacket up to his chest, sticks his hands deep into his pockets and clamps the books he's carrying down under his elbow. He crosses over to the other side of the street before he reaches the end of it, the Scarecrow sinking slowly back into his lawn chair, puffs of laughter visible in the cold air.

Sam goes the long way around just to get back to the motel, wondering if Dean's ordered pizza already, fingers sliding over the coins in his pocket.

| October 10, 1999

Sam follows Dean most of the way back on autopilot. His right leg throbs with pain every time he puts weight on it, every time he takes it off, and it's such a constant presence in his body that it blocks out all other sights, sounds, and sensations. He doesn't feel the weight of the unloaded crossbow, heavy in his hands; doesn't hear the patter of rain overhead as it falls thickly through the canopy of trees; doesn't feel the chill seeping in through his clothes, spreading through his muscles and his bones.

He doesn't see Dean stop in the pitch dark up ahead, the light in his hand sliding erratically back and forth along the trees.

Sam doesn't see the fallen log, just behind Dean.

And then he's going over it on his bad leg, and his leg gives out on him. It doesn't even try. It says _fuck this, Sam Winchester_, a sharp spike of pain, and it buckles as he stumbles over the log. Sam falls right into his brother's back and the impact knocks the duffel bag off of Dean's shoulder, the crossbow from Sam's hands.

Thank God it's not loaded. It hits Sam's knee on the way down, smashes the toe of his boot, and comes to a rustling halt in the undergrowth.

Sam's pulse rushes in his ears, drowning out all the others sounds except his harsh breath, tearing at his lungs.

His face is pressed into Dean's back, between his shoulder blades.

Dean stands still, feet braced to take the sudden additional weight so they both don't go down, the duffel bag swinging in the crook of his elbow. Sam's fingers have a vice grip in the sleeves of Dean's jacket, digging down into his arms, and Sam shakes with the effort of holding himself up until he manages to get his legs underneath him again. He groans, slowly shifts his weight off his injured leg, off of Dean. He loosens his grip as he stands on his own.

The beam of the flashlight darts back and up, near his face. He can't see Dean behind it, as he twists to peer over his shoulder, but Sam can hear the concern in his voice, a buried guilt that Sam will never understand edging out, maybe without Dean even realizing it.

"You're not gonna make it much further, man - "

The words come out like they weigh a ton.

The light drops, playing over the ragged, bloody tears in the calf of Sam's jeans; the torn shirt sleeve that has served as a poor excuse for a bandage. His boot has blood puddled in the heel. Sam can feel it sitting there, now that he's stopped moving. The thought makes him dizzy and Sam closes his eyes, trying to take a deep breath.

" - not on that leg."

Sam huffs out a laugh, "Yeah, no kidding." They stand silently in the woods, in the dark as the rain comes down in a steady, gently rhythm, flashlight pointed at the ground between them. It's only a few seconds, but it's long enough. Sam's voice is soft when he speaks again, makes sure he doesn't sound like he's blaming Dean, because he isn't. More like coming to terms with a small fact. "You don't have any idea where we are, do you?"

He can't even lift his foot to ease some of the ache; his boot is too heavy, and that only makes it hurt worse.

At this point breathing seems to make it worse.

"_I know where we are."_ Dean sounds angry. Sam knows he's just scared, worried; that he's just being _Dean_. It's why he asked quietly. "Just sit down, alright. Sit down, get off your leg for a few minutes and let me get my bearings –"

"Dean – "

"- I fucking recognize this, I know I do. Shit looks so different in the dark – "

"_Dean."_ It takes more strength than Sam would like to admit it, but he has to. He has to and he hates it. Dean quiets and looks at him, lifting the flashlight enough to see Sam's face again, and Sam raises his shoulders, palms up and open. "If I sit down I'm not getting back up. Not any time soon."

So he stands there while Dean looks at him, blood pooling in his boot, crossbow lying among the grass and sticks, leg hot and throbbing. The misty rain cools the heat he suddenly feels, laying thick over his skin like air from a furnace.

Tentatively, Sam asks, "You tried calling Dad?"

When Dean looks down at his phone, Sam realizes it's been in his hand this whole time.

"Don't have service."

It's the last thing he says for several minutes and the time passes slowly, like years. Leaves and sticks break under Dean's boots as he moves away, the sounds subdued, soft and wet. Dean walks a couple of yards in another direction, turns to look around, then comes back again.

Sam stays where Dean leaves him, swaying slightly on his feet.

Dad would kick his ass for not being alert, but Dean just doubles up in his place, and the next thing Sam knows, Dean is squeezing his arm, giving him a firm shake. Dean pulls him forward and Sam goes with him, staggering a little, his legs weak and shaky, the right one throbbing in protest.

It doesn't give out on him, that's something.

Dean is talking to him.

"C'mon, little brother, you're alright. 'S just a scratch, right? That ain't so bad. You can make it, let's go, we almost walked right fuckin' past it."

There are a lot of words that Sam doesn't fully hear; he's too busy inwardly laughing at the _little brother_ bit. He's almost as tall as Dean is, now, with a body that has no apparent intentions to stop growing now that it's started in earnest. Sam doesn't know how he's going to feel about having to look down at Dean, even if it's just an inch or two. Not when he has always looked up to Dean.

When Dean is the one that half-carries him wherever it is that they're going.

The rain feels thicker, sounds clearer.

Sam doesn't realize he's walking with his eyes closed until he opens them and turns his head to one side, sees a field stretching out around him, back to the line of trees they must've just left. There's a hay barn looming in the distance, no light around for miles other than the one Dean is carrying, bobbing as he walks. It cuts across the field that's already grown tall again, despite a recent haying, and flashes off the tin roof, through the rain.

There's no farm house nearby. Just a long dirt road, more trees and fields.

"This isn't the car," Sam says dumbly, gripping Dean's elbow with both hands as he steps over the low barbed-wire fence on the edge of the field.

"Yeah, well, close enough, right?"

Dean grins at him, drags him underneath the high roof, and the soft give of hay under his feet brings a noticeable relief to the pressure building in Sam's leg. He almost lays down on the ground, right there. The round bales of hay are as tall as either of them, stacked pyramid-style in three neat rows, two bales high, five across. Dean boosts him up onto one of the round bales in the middle row, and Sam climbs the next one up by himself, fingers digging into the itchy hay to get a grip on the twine stringing it together.

Sam crawls over the top of it, sinking into the dip between the two that meet at the top.

He doesn't move again until the duffel bag and crossbow get dropped beside him, clattering in the muffled quiet.

It's dry and musky over the clean, clear smell of rain and dirt. At least until Dean leans over him, and then there's just the sharp spice of his deodorant. Dean makes him move, hands in Sam's jacket, lifting him up. Sam leans back agianst one of the bales and Dean stretches his leg out, one steadying hand behind his knee and the other around his ankle. He works Sam's boots off, one at a time, then the makeshift bandage; pushes the tattered leg of his jeans up out of the way, rolling it around his knee. He takes the half-empty bottle of whiskey out of the duffel bag and pours over the claw marks, and Sam barely has the energy to hiss at the sharp, disinfecting sting.

He falls asleep, head dropped back against the hay, before Dean has even finished. He knows he hears Dean tearing the spare shirt to make a new bandage. Hears Dean talking, his voice a low continuous murmur _("Got one bar of signal here, so I'm gonna call Dad and let him know we got that ugly sucker and we're good, we'll be back in the mornin'. I know where we are, now, remember passin' this barn on the way in, but there's no point in gettin' out in all this again right now. Hell, we're both wiped. You just rest up, Sammy. I got you.")_. Dean's hands are quick and sure when they move, and Sam knows he isn't expected to pay attention or answer.

He wakes while it's still dark, surprisingly warm. Dean is asleep with his arms crossed, pressed against his injured side, and Sam laughs sleepily, his eyes falling shut again. He bumps his knee against Dean's as he's settling and gets a shoulder against his in return.

The rain tins gently overhead.

-x-

(A/n) Just in case anyone wanted Sammy feels today. Title is from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, because I absolutely, randomly, love that poem and after re-reading it recently I found it oddly fitting for Sam (and Supernatural in general). So there's that.

Reviews are appreciated!

-Motcn


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